


I Have Crossed Between The Poles

by Callisparrow



Category: Genesis (Band)
Genre: 1970s, Crossdressing, Gen, Prog Rock, young genesis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-16
Updated: 2015-04-16
Packaged: 2018-03-23 04:44:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3754990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callisparrow/pseuds/Callisparrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For once Peter has won a bet with Tony! Only this time the rest of the band has to fulfill the unusual terms, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Have Crossed Between The Poles

Peter put the finishing touches on his white and violet face paint and shook out the folds of his long red borrowed dress. The usual pre-show butterflies were dancing in his stomach, but this time he was excited for more than one reason. For one thing, he couldn't stop glancing over at the lounge table where the recent copy of Melody Maker—the one promoting the band, with his picture on the cover!—rested atop the stack of trade show magazines and stray cigarette butts. And for another, he simply couldn't stop the warm feeling of satisfaction swelling in his chest each time he gazed at that cover.

Not for any reasons of vanity, he assured himself. But because of a certain little exchange with Tony about a month ago...

 

* * *

 

“I cannot believe you did that, Peter.”

“Why? Didn't you hear the audience? They went absolutely bonkers! They loved it!” Peter had removed his slightly musty fox mask, his face wet and flushed with excitement. “I've never heard such applause for us before.”

“Yes. But you might have warned us you were going to show up onstage in your mother's dress—”

“It's Jill's dress, not my mother's!”

“—and you're just lucky the audience didn't take things a different way. They might very well have torn you apart. It might have ruined us! If it were me, I'd not have allowed it.”

“That's just it, Tony. I knew you wouldn't 'allow' anything. It's why I didn't ask. But I wanted to do this. I took the chance. And look where it's got us!”

“Where exactly has it got us?” Tony said with a deep frown. “As far as I can tell, we're still the group that nobody knows. When Genesis isn't 'who's that?' we're mistaken for Quintessence... no, I take that back, because people actually know who Quintessence _is_.”

“Then this could change our luck! I bet we'll be on the cover of a magazine by next month, at the very least.” Peter still wasn't sure what had brought on this unlikely boast, but he remembered how it had made even Tony sit up and take notice.

“You _bet?_ ” he had said with a dangerous smirk. “Be careful, I might just take it.”

“All right then! Why don't you?”

“Because neither of us have any money to throw away, Peter.”

“It doesn't have to be money. I'll bet you... I'll bet that if we're not on the cover of Melody Maker by next month, I won't argue with you about keyboard arrangements anymore.”

Tony raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Anymore? As in, for good and all?”

“That's right. You won't hear any complaints from me, no matter how insufferable you get.”

Tony graciously chose to ignore this remark for the time being.

“And if we do appear on the cover?”

Peter grinned slowly. “Then the whole group, you included, must join me dressed in drag for our next performance.”

Tony bit his lower lip. He spent a good half minute considering this very carefully. Then, with a confident smile, he stood up and held out his hand to shake.

“Very well. It's a bet.”

 

* * *

 

Peter grinned smugly to himself and picked up his camera. This was going to be one for the ages.

There was a knock on the lounge door and Peter looked up, camera at the ready.

“Hullo, Steve! Come in, come in!”

Steve, stone-faced and quiet as usual, seemed more befuddled by these proceedings than anything else, but he had dutifully upheld his end of the bargain. Interestingly there was not much in his choice of fashion that had changed—he wore one of his usual knit turtleneck sweaters, this one a bright goldenrod, and matching knee-high socks with shining black platform shoes. But instead of trousers, he had selected a short woolen skirt, woven in wide yellow, orange, and gray squares of plaid. It made for an interesting effect—if not for his heavy beard, he might have easily passed for a tall, if very straight-lined, female fashion model.

“I hope this is all right,” Steve muttered. He smoothed his hands over the front of the skirt, as if worried that it didn’t quite cover everything, or would fall down over his narrow hips at any moment.

“Oh, Steve, you look very smart,” Peter reassured him as he snapped a picture. “Very fashionable.” Steve made a noncommittal face and shrugged. He didn’t seem terribly impressed by anything thus far, but Peter had always found their quiet guitarist a bit difficult to read even at the best of times. Perhaps he was just trying not to laugh too hard at himself.

The main dressing room door opened a crack and Mike peeked out sheepishly.

“Is it safe?” he asked with an embarrassed grin.

“Come on out, Mike, let’s see!” Peter urged him, as he readied the camera.

Mike reluctantly obeyed, and his face turned even redder as Steve and Peter tried and failed to stifle their snickering laughter.

“I knew it looked stupid,” he sighed, and shut his eyes to the blinding camera flash.

“No no, it’s fine! Take off the coat so we can see properly!” Peter giggled.

Mike grudgingly undid the front of his favorite (and only) Afghan coat.

“I thought it might cover the… the top bit,” he mumbled. But he cast the shaggy coat aside to reveal a long, ill-fitting red and purple sundress, decorated with wide zigzagging bands of color and intricate flowery patterns at the hem. It fell somewhere just below his knees and the thin straps at the top refused to stay put, falling down over his shoulders to expose his chest.

“It’s my sister’s!” he exclaimed as his bandmates’ laughter only grew louder. “It was the only thing she had that I could get into. And even then it’s too short.” He rolled his eyes miserably and tugged at the straps. “I had a time trying to explain this to her. She’s going to be in the audience tonight, laughing at me…”

“I can imagine!” Peter himself couldn’t stop laughing at poor Mike’s gangly figure in that awful dress, and perhaps most amusingly of all, his usual pair of roughed-up leather boots that did not match the delicate fabric in any way. But before long Mike was chuckling too and even managed to perform a modest curtsey as he sat down next to Steve.

“I guess it is funny,” Mike admitted.

“Comfortable,” Steve added slyly, and carefully crossed his legs, trying to pull his skirt down as far as he could over his thigh.

A sudden drumroll sounded from the adjacent practice room and with a crash of cymbals, the door flew open to reveal…

“Bloody hell, Phil!” Mike blurted, his mouth falling open. “What _do_ you look like?”

Grinning like a devil, Phil—or at least, some crazy vision that resembled Phil—leaned in the doorway, twirling the drumsticks between his fingers. At first it was difficult to reconcile exactly what they were seeing. Their eyes moved up his wiry little body in a mix of salaciousness and shock, taking in the sight of his dangerously sharp five-inch black heels, his fine black stockings clipped to a hot pink garter belt and matching satin knickers, his lacy purple push-up bra. No amount of bright pink lipstick and mascara would distract from his full scruffy beard and overall hairiness, but makeup he had in abundance too, just the same.

“Wot, indeed?” Phil stuffed the drumsticks down the front of his bra and strutted confidently into the room, swinging his hips and wobbling only once on the unsteady heels. “Like a great juicy tart, I’d say, and prooooud of it!” He had cranked up his ordinary mild working-class accent just as Cockney as it would go, smiling all the while. He winked at Peter flirtatiously, and abruptly planted a wet kiss on his lips.

“Wot’s wrong, love?” he said when they broke apart. “Never met a lady who could show you such a good time, eh?”

Peter had been reduced to a kind of desperate, silent laughter. Tears leaked from his eyes as he struggled to breathe, gasping like a dying fish.

“Phil… your _todger_!!” he managed to choke out, before collapsing on the sofa in a fit of howling. Phil looked down and adjusted himself in the tight satin underwear as vulgarly as possible. Truly it left nothing at all to the imagination.

“Ah, ya like that, do you? Well, none of me customers ever complained before!” Phil seemed to be having the absolute time of his life, prancing about the room, singing snatches of a deep-voiced love ballad of something or other, and generally making his friends die of laughter before he finally settled down… into Mike’s lap.

"Come on, gi’ us a kiss."

Mike blushed a little but he allowed Phil to smooch him on the cheek. A round, shining pink lip-print remained in that spot.

"Phil," Mike said, helplessly covering his eyes, "do I dare ask where you got these things?"

"Ah-ah, no, darling," Phil replied with a cheeky smile. "A lady must have her secrets."

"You’re not actually going to go on like that, are you?" Steve asked.

"And why not? If Pete says we’ve all got to dress up as ladies, I for one am going to have fun with it."

"Well, when I said ‘ladies,’ I didn’t really expect, uh… well anyway," Peter fumbled with the camera as he took another snapshot, feeling a bit hot and flustered and not quite understanding why. "Well done, Phil. You’ll be the sexiest drummer we ever had, I’m sure."

"Ta very much."

"Now, it seems to me," Peter continued, "one of us is missing. Has anybody seen Tony?"

"He was with me,” Mike said. “Laughing at me, I might add. I saw him go into the second dressing room but he hasn’t come out.”

"Right. I think it’s about time he made an appearance. Tony! Come out of there this instant, young man." Peter went into the hall and pounded his fist severely on the dressing room door, but there was no answer.

"Tony?" Peter called, a little softer this time. "Come on, everybody’s waiting. They’ve all got their frocks on. I’m wearing mine, too."

"Go away." Tony’s icy voice drifted through the closed door.

"Oh come on, stop it."

"I refuse to come out of here.”

"Tony, don’t be like that! We made a bet, don’t go back on it now!" He jiggled the door handle but it was locked tight. "I’m sure you look lovely."

"I won’t do it and that’s that!"

Peter glowered and stamped his foot. He was about to lose his temper and yell something very rude when Phil sidled up next to him, holding a finger to his own lips.

"Shh. Allow me," he said, and withdrew one of the drumsticks still peeking out of his bra. He deftly inserted it into the gap between the lock and the door jamb, wiggled it a bit, and smiled as the lock gave way with a satisfying click.

"They really need to get better locks in this place," Phil said, grinning in response to Peter’s look of admiration. But their triumph was short lived as Tony pushed hard against the door from the inside and tried to lock it again.

"Oh no you don’t!" cried Peter, and slammed his shoulder into the door, battling his equally-determined friend to keep it open.

"How dare you?!” Tony’s voice was furious now. “If you think you can force your way in here...”

Peter grunted and crammed his foot into the narrow opening, but was only rewarded with the door smashing into his toes.

"Owwww!" he yelped. “Phil, help me!”

But Phil was laughing much too hard to help anybody.

The commotion had drawn the attention of Mike and Steve, who stood awkwardly in the hall wondering if it was worth it to come between Tony's hot temper and Peter's stubborn determination. Actually that wasn't a difficult decision; nobody dared make a move to stop either of them.

“Tony, for the last time—”

“Fine! You want to see me so badly? Take a look, then!”

Tony released his hold on the door and Peter tumbled forward, faceplanting with a loud thump onto the floor. He sat there, unhurt but silently wondering if it was too late to find a hole to crawl in and die of embarrassment.

“Tony! I could have broken my neck!” he groaned. Distantly he was aware of Tony speaking again and he crawled back into a standing position, but his eyes stopped at the hem of something frilly and light blue...

“Fine, look if you must, but I will not go onstage this way,” Tony was saying. He crossed his arms defiantly and glowered at each of his friends in turn, his eyes burning. “What? What are you all staring at?”

Nobody spoke. Nobody even laughed at the sight of Tony in a demure white garden-party dress, trimmed at the short sleeves with delicate blue eyelet lace and tied about his waist with a gauzy blue sash. He had removed his shoes and stood barefoot, his toes gripping the thin carpet. It took a while for any of his four friends to reply properly, but finally it was Phil who broke the silence:

“Oh, Tony!” he breathed, and his faraway smile was one of genuine admiration. “You look like a princess!”

A very angry princess, thought Peter, as Tony scowled even more. But it was true. He marveled at Tony's tangled dark hair curling about his shoulders just as it always did, but combined with the delicate dress, his beautifully sharp features and full pouting lips, the overall effect was stunning. Even his long, narrow bare feet seemed so graceful. Peter didn't bother to take a picture. He would remember this vision for the rest of his life.

“Anyway,” Tony sighed, “I fulfilled my part of the bet. Happy now? Just give me a moment to change and we can start.” He turned away to pick up his faded trousers hanging on the back of a chair, but a chorus of protests arose as he started to undo his sash.

“No, don't change!”

“You can't!”

“We're all going on like this, you know.”

“It wouldn't be fair!”

Tony gazed back at them. He seemed to notice their outlandish getup for the first time, and was completely bewildered. He hesitated but did not protest as Peter took him gently by the hand and led him out of the dressing room.

“Besides,” Peter said with a soft smile, “you really do look lovely, Tony. This is going to be our most talked-about show yet. Just wait until we're all on the cover of Melody Maker tomorrow!”

“Hrm,” was all Tony said. But it seemed he had finally decided to relent. He, the stubborn Tony Banks himself, had actually decided to unbend! The realization made Peter's heart soar.

As they moved backstage to await their cue, listening to the low murmurs of the excited audience, Peter leaned in closer to whisper and innocently tucked a stray lock of hair behind his friend's ear.

“And uh... you perhaps wouldn't mind, um, keeping that dress on for me after the show?”

“Shut up, Pete,” Tony grumbled.

But Peter was certain he saw a tiny smile blooming somewhere under that frown.


End file.
